


Scenes from a Mortuary

by Bridie_Brackenhoe



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridie_Brackenhoe/pseuds/Bridie_Brackenhoe
Summary: A repository for the little scraps and stuff I have written, mostly on the bus.March 16 - I have fashioned a chapter 3 from bread and dripping, a bit of green paint, and corrugated iron.





	1. How Cold the Night Can Be...

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look, a trope! Who doesn't love a good trope? I know I do.Yes, it's a cliche, but always a good one and who doesn't want to climb in bed with Hilda? 
> 
> This is the fic equivalent of empty calories that will rot your teeth.

The silence is all encompassing and it's keeping Zelda awake. It's compounded by the snow outside that has laid a thick blanket of nature's sound proofing over the mortuary and while it looks beautiful, its relentless assault has finally defeated the old building's ancient boiler. Inside, where the temperature has dropped several degrees, four walls now separate her from Hilda's nocturnal cacophony.

For decades, she has tossed and turned and huffed and sworn under her breath at Hilda's snuffling snores. She's complained at the little moans and groans, the muttered nonsense phrases, an alarming amount of which involve cheese, and dramatically thrown herself to the mattress with her pillow over her head. Now, with a sliver of mid-winter moonlight ticking off the hours with its slow sojourn across the ceiling, she lies awake in the oppressive quiet. 

Her nose is cold. 

Every now and then, the house groans as unseen feet shuffle as quickly as sleepiness will allow to the bathroom down the hallway. Then the silence again. 

She misses Hilda. She's also freezing. 

Ever the problem solver, she slips out of bed, bare feet (she refuses to wear socks to bed) light on the chilly floor and wraps her dressing gown around herself. She listens at the door to make sure Ambrose and Sabrina are safely ensconced in their rooms, before setting off down the corridor like a silky ghost.

Hilda's rhythmic snuffles are like coming home. In the diffuse glow reflected from the snow outside, Zelda can just make out a lump of sister underneath a mound of blankets, blonde hair shining. She pulls off her dressing gown, for all the good that did, and climbs under the covers. 

Hilda stirs as Zelda snakes an arm around her flannel pyjama-clad waist and cuddles up to her back. She is toasty warm whereas Zelda is so cold she's tense and shivering and it wakes Hilda up. 

"Zelds?" she mumbles. "S'matter?" 

"I... Er... Well, I was cold..." Zelda admits because believable reasons for crawling into Hilda's bed in the wee hours of the morning are thin on the ground and she'll be damned if she's going to admit she misses Hilda. Besides it's not a lie. 

She slips a hand under Hilda's pyjama top, making Hilda jump slightly.

"Bloody freezing!" Hilda yawns, turns over, pulls Zelda close, rubs icy feet with her own be-socked ones. "S'better?" 

It is. Much. 

When she feels Zelda nod, she huffs a sleepy "m'kay, good." Her breathing evens out into little puffs onto Zelda's collarbone, and soon the snores start up again. Hilda sleeps harder than anyone else she knows. 

Finding her sister's hand, Zelda laces their fingers together, settles herself further into Hilda's warmth, drifts off.


	2. Riptide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'll go down together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, delicious angst. These two are just dripping with it sometimes. Set after Hilda finds Zelda harming herself so warnings for self-harm and unhealthy coping mechanisms. 
> 
> I'm not sure what to do with it so I'm leaving it here...

Even Zelda stumbles sometimes. 

Hilda was never meant to see her like this. Her little sister, who for their entire life has looked to her for guidance, for her to be the strength, has found her, whip in hand. Her dirty secret, her release, her penance for weaknesses she cannot control. Captaining the good ship Spellman through the choppy waters of the mortal world, navigating the dark undercurrents of the Church of Night, all the while keeping herself upstanding is a feat in itself and one that demands she be immovable. Hilda should not have to see her cry. Figureheads do not weep.

But Hilda has an arm around her waist, taking great care not to touch the wounds on her back and it feels good to relinquish for just a moment, to let Hilda take control. She is warm and solid and she gently lifts Zelda's face, wipes a tear away with her thumb and presses their lips together. 

"I'll be right back," she whispers, giving Zelda's hand a squeeze. She makes sure to take the scourge with her. It writhes like Medusa when she burns it in the living room fire. 

In the kitchen she grabs a jar of her healing salve and her small bag of medical supplies. As an afterthought, she pours a whisky from Zelda's crystal decanter and heads back upstairs.

Zelda has stopped crying. She accepts the glass, takes a small sip as Hilda climbs up behind her on the bed.

"You weren't supposed to see..." 

Hilda sweeps Zelda's hair over her shoulder, away from the raging skin of her back.

"You should have locked the bloody door then." She dips two fingers into the salve, concentrates on its application. Still, she can't help but see that underneath the fresh wounds are old, faded scars that haven't healed properly. Zelda always changes in the bathroom, a habit Hilda always put down to her sister's prudish side. A sharp guilt twists her gut. 

The whisky burns Zelda's throat, a well-aged absolution in an expensive glass. Hilda's hands are practiced, efficient and the salve is cool and feels wonderful. She lets her head fall forward, relishing being the sole focus of her sister's attention. She knows this will eat at Hilda, that she'll blame herself, and she too will find herself sinking and she'll turn to her own bad habits... 

They'll go down together, clinging to one another. They always do. 

Another sip, and another, and her muscles begin to relax. The absence of her scourge is a vacuum that will have to be filled.

She drains the glass.


	3. The Tenth Commandment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zelda covets Hilda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny scrap I wanted to do more with but wasn't sure how to go about it. 
> 
> I'm in love with the idea of repressed Zelda being in love with Hilda. IN LOVE.

When Hilda comes home glowing, in her polyester costume, whistling and tainted with dog, Zelda seethes. 

Hilda belongs to _her_. 

Those are _her_ curves, _her_ hips, fingers, lips, tongue, teeth, heart. 

She stores away the pictures of Hilda licking buttery jam from her fingers and wants more than anything to kiss away the toast crumbs at the corner of her mouth. She wants more than anything to come up behind her while she is bending over to check the oven. When they’re working in the morgue, she wants more than anything to push Hilda against the fridges and press up against her softness, or to slide a questioning hand over a thick thigh under their desk as they sit side by side while Hilda consoles a client. 

Zelda covets Hilda. 

As they get ready for bed, she watches her undress, the shamed watching the shameless, Hilda oblivious, flinging underwear over the back of the chair, chattering on about the inanities of her day. She’ll wish Zelda a good night and flick out the light and it is then, in the darkroom of the bedroom, Zelda develops her craven, graven images and asks the question she asks herself every night: “Is this a sin?” 

One night, Hilda’s voice comes from the darkness, low and quiet. Zelda's heart stops.

“Let’s find out. Sister.”


End file.
